


Cocoa (If I Should Fall for You)

by aeyria



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Improper Use of a Rosary, Light Angst, M/M, No Sex, No beta we fall like Crowley, Non-Sexual Bondage, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29018718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeyria/pseuds/aeyria
Summary: Cocoa - bitterness, darkness, healing, warmthHealing from trauma is a strange and messy thing; it's nice to have someone there to catch you when you fall, especially when you can both work through things together.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28
Collections: Spice Rack





	Cocoa (If I Should Fall for You)

**Author's Note:**

> The nsfw channel on the Ace Omens server was doing flavour prompts for short drabbles and I decided to join in. This time, I was given cocoa by Kami!
> 
> i started this in september and now its january and 4am and i'm not sure i like it but i needed to get it out of my drafts so here you go. apologies in advance for any errors or inconsistencies, if i missed any tags let me know and i'll add them later. this is not where i expected it to go

It’s a form of catharsis, Aziraphale had explained it to him once. Something about needing to return to certain spaces in order to work through letting them go. 

Crowley had frowned then at the idea. Even now, two hours in and circling the angel’s bound form at a distance, he finds himself feeling apprehensive towards the concept.

_“I don’t want you to rescue me,” Aziraphale had told him. “At least, not at first.”_

_“So you just want me to just—?”_

_“Be there. Not for the entire thing, of course. I wouldn’t ask that of you. But be there for me after.” Catch me when I fall._

Crowley worries about that. Not the catching part; he’s spent most of his existence chasing after the angel with a metaphorical crash pad for when things go south. Right now, a frankly obscene amount of sweets, blankets, and pillows are tucked away just outside the doorway, not to mention the baskets full of water bottles, and wet cloths, and lotions, and… 

No, catching he can do. What worries him is the falling. Aziraphale had acted as if he were implying a lowercase-f fall during the negotiations of this scene, but something in it makes Crowley wonder if he didn’t mean a true Fall. If this exercise didn’t go beyond just healing and cross into the realm of tempting fate. 

A string of rosaries suspend Aziraphale’s hands above him in a crude facsimile of prayer, their chain tethering him to the single spotlight hung overhead as he kneels on the cold, bare ground down below. Aside from an antiquated pair of pants, the angel wears nothing, and the exposed rolls of generous flesh provide a stark, supple canvas for the carefully woven web of golden ropes to dig into. Around him, a ring of runes and carefully drawn chalk circles spread like roots across the floor, framed by flickering ceremonial candles and an incense that burns with a scent Crowley hasn’t smelled since 1941. 

It all seems dangerously blasphemous, Crowley thinks, even for an angel who’s technically now retired. 

_“What if something happens while you’re in there?” he’d asked. And then, before Aziraphale could voice the dismissal he knew was coming, “And don’t say it won’t, I know you’re smart but I need to know you’re safe. At least so I know when I can come get you.”_

“Please,” Aziraphale begs, tear-streaked face turned skyward to stare blindfolded into the searing light. Crowley says nothing — strains his ears to hear, but keeps silent. _Don’t respond, he hasn’t called it, don’t respond, just let him work through it._ “Please, God, I need to hear you.” 

A heartbroken wail bursts free from Aziraphale’s chest like an arrow sent to shatter the thing beating in Crowley’s own. She doesn’t respond. (She never responds.) Crowley looks away. 

_“I want a safe word.”_

_“Dear, if you’re not okay with this—“_

_“I am, Aziraphale. I will be. This is important to you and I trust you. I just, I want to make sure we can communicate clearly through it, yeah?”_

_Aziraphale had softened at that, taken his nervously tapping hand and pressed to his lips like a prayer._

_“Of course, you’re right. In that case, why don’t we use—“_

“Eden!”

In an instant, Crowley is by Aziraphale’s side, suddenly corporeal wings sweeping through curls of dissipating chalk dust and candle smoke as he pulls the angel down into a tight, mantled embrace. 

“I’m here, angel, I’m right here. I’ve got you.” 

The rosary wrapped around Aziraphale’s wrists pulls free with a quick twist, the blindfold slips off, and then Aziraphale is clutching at his shirt like it’s a lifeline, sobbing into his collar in heaves that rock both of their bodies. 

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers. “I don’t—, I shouldn’t—” 

“Shhh, you’re safe. You’re home now.”

With a thought, all but the dimmest the lights are extinguished (the spotlight is banished from existence); with another, Crowley summons the carefully curated baskets of aftercare supplies. Removing even a single point of contact feels like a betrayal, but he manages to pull away enough to fish out a soft blanket and tuck it over Aziraphale’s trembling body. Priority right now is establishing a safe environment to come down in. He waves the pillows into a nest around them. They’re all horridly mismatched — bloody ancient things he’d dredged up from the various corners of the bookshop — but distance and grounding are important after a scene, and smell one of the most primal senses in these corporations, so Crowley had grabbed the most well used soft goods he could find and brought them over in preparation. 

Aziraphale now makes no sign he’s noticed. The angel has curled in on himself, seeking shelter in the shadows of Crowley’s care in a way that both warms and worries him. But there will be time to think on that later. After. He takes a breath and sets to work on removing the rest of the bonds. 

It’s almost too slow to untie all of the knots by hand. Aziraphale is unresisting beneath his fingers, Crowley now practiced in unraveling efficiency, but physicality is tied to time on this plane, and even a second spent thumbing through rope is more time than he’d ever wish Aziraphale to suffer. Still, Crowley had found in his research leading up to this — how to safely bind someone, how to tie knots and how to release them, how strong is the average rosary, how to care for someone after an intense, potentially failed scene — that release outside of emergencies is best handled gradually. Ease the body out of the sensations or risk sending them into shock. 

Aziraphale is balanced on a knife’s edge right now; Crowley swallows his impatience and takes the knots out one by one.

For a while, time passes in a shudder, shakily uncertain of itself and rapidly endless. As soon as the ropes and rosaries are removed, Crowley lifts Aziraphale off of his knees and settles him into his lap. Less like praying, he hopes, more like care. He takes the wet cloth and gently wipes away the sweat, rubs a soothing cream into the angry red marks while he works the knots out of the abused flesh. 

Eventually, the sobs subside enough to shudders that Aziraphale is able to take sips of water, then slices of fruit, then the plainest of truffles. He doesn’t take everything, and it’s not every time, but at least he’s returned enough to take some things. Each item gets pressed to the angel’s lips in careful offering, praise falling from Crowley’s own for every rejection and acceptance alike. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

It is, in a way, worship. It is care for something sacred, a practice in Love but infinitely more intimate than his connection to Her had ever been. This is rooted in the promise of presence, faith received and returned. 

_You are not alone. You are loved. I will not abandon you. I will protect you. I love you._

Aziraphale reaches up to cup Crowley’s hand with his own, and Crowley lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispers. “I... I think I needed that.” 

“I know,” Crowley says. He doesn’t understand the method, not exactly, but he does understand the reason. Trauma is funny like that. He presses his lips pressed to the curls just above his angel’s forehead. “I know you did, angel.” 

The words leave his mouth and Aziraphale flinches as if stuck.

“But there’s the rub, isn’t it? I shouldn’t be.” Something like bitterness simmers behind the guilt. “I questioned Her, Crowley. I didn’t believe—“

“Heaven isn’t God,” Crowley reminds him firmly. Put an end to this. “You know the wankers up there didn’t get Armageddon from Her.” 

Why the angel is going back to this point, he’s not sure; personal biases aside, he had thought their success in averting the Apocalypse and subsequent trials had rather effectively proven their old sides’ separation from Her. But again, trauma is hard to unlearn, and if that’s what Aziraphale needs, Crowley will repeat it until the end of days. It’s okay. He tries to go back to the quiet cuddling they had been sharing before, but Aziraphale won’t let the subject go. 

“Not that,” Aziraphale says, shaking his head. “I questioned Her about you.” 

Crowley freezes. The angel’s voice cracks on the last word, the thin veneer of calm beginning to give way again, but this time Crowley can’t be there to stop it. A pang like ice shoots through his system as he processes the angel’s words. No. No, no, no.

‘Stop,’ he wants to say. ‘Don’t.’ Don’t do this. Don’t sound so certain about it. 

Aziraphale’s gaze is impossibly soft. “I never understood why you Fell. I still don’t.”

‘It was a long time ago,’ he wants to explain. ‘Things were different back then.’ _I’m not worth it, it doesn’t matter, don’t Fall for me, angel, please you have to believe me—_

But Aziraphale refuses him the chance to protest, pressing onward, pressing upward until there are arms around his shoulders and he can’t tell who is cradling whom anymore. 

“You didn’t deserve it,” Aziraphale whispers into the crook of his shoulder. “I know Her plans are ineffable but you didn’t deserve to Fall. Not if Heaven is still full of angels.”

It feels as though the world is unraveling. Crowley’s wings tense as if caught between fight or flight, but panic and desperation lodge heavy in his stomach, liquid mercury seeping deep into his lungs and spreading like slow poison on the panicked thrum of his heartbeat. He can’t deal with this, not right now. There’s a thing that’s begun writhing in his gut, something small and ugly and desperate and wanting and he cannot deal with this right now.

If Aziraphale Falls for him— 

“I’m a demon,” he manages to choke out. “You’re an angel, and I’m a demon and that‘s what we are now, angel, you _can’t_ change that. You— I don’t want you to.”

And that’s the truth at least. Aziraphale _has_ to stay an angel. Crowley can deal with being a demon; he’s been one for over six thousand years now and as much as he hates Hell, as much as he had resented Her in those early stages, he honestly doesn’t mind his role anymore. One might say he enjoys it, even. There’s a challenge in working with humans that the stars for all their beauty can’t provide, and after the Fall, the worst is really the company. But the Fall itself… 

”You _can’t_ ,” he says again. He hates that he can’t summon any other words, that this is what his argument is reduced to, but there simply are no other words to describe it, the horrible wrench of holiness from one’s being and the twisting, warping, writhing transformation into something Else. 

Aziraphale takes his hands between them and only then does Crowley realize how much he’s shaking. 

“I’m not asking to Fall,” Aziraphale says gently. “She made us as we are for a reason, and while I don’t fully understand it, I wouldn’t give what we have for the world. But I can be grateful for what She has given us while acknowledging that She hurt you terribly to do so. She made me to be a guardian, my dear — is it so wrong that I should want to fight the injustices leveled against the one I love?”

He brings a finger to Crowley’s cheek, brushing away a stray strand of hair, wings spreading like a shield, and in the featherlight point of contact, Crowley Sees. 

_Angel._

Divine power erupts against his senses like lightning, bathing the room and its source in an almost blinding aura of powder blue and gold energies that twine together in a weave of celestial harmony. For all of his appearances, Aziraphale is a being of immense strength, and Crowley is reminded in this moment if just how much Aziraphale can be. The totality of an eclipse. The eye of a storm. He is in perfect, terrifying control, and even still Crowley finds himself hopelessly overwhelmed. Distantly, he wonders if this is what drowning feels like. Holiness hangs in the air thick enough to suffocate, and every atom of his being has attuned itself to the electrifying hum of new energy that Crowley can feel coursing through his angel’s hollow, hallowed vanes bare millimeters away from his body. 

If this were any other circumstance, any other angel, he would burn. Demons aren’t meant to return to the Light in any way they could survive, but this is Aziraphale, his angel, and the possessive mantle of many-eyed wings hold him as safe as they do secure, a tawny cradle immune to the deadly bite of the flames they fan. Humans would call the concept a Faraday cage; Crowley sees it as a shelter. Ghosts of an eagle, ox, and lion keep careful watch above while Aziraphale bows his human head toward their shared point of contact below. 

‘I know we don’t have to hide anymore,’ Aziraphale had explained to him once, ‘but there are moments you and I are allowed to share just between us.’ 

Like this. Like sharing fears and submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known. 

Aziraphale draws his finger away and the room returns to quiet darkness. 

“Oh,” Crowley breathes, once the air has settled back within his lungs. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale agrees. He sounds rather breathless himself, his pupils blown wide in a way that can’t be blamed entirely on the low light levels. 

Crowley doesn’t ask. There will be time later to debrief and go over what happened; now, they get to rest. He holds up a hand to snap, and at Aziraphale’s nod, miracles them to their bed. For all his hard work picking out pillows and soft goods, it’s nothing like sinking beneath the covers on a proper mattress, and the shock of welcoming comfort has exhaustion claiming him almost immediately. He sheds his clothes and wriggles through the sea of blankets until he finds his angel’s side.

“‘m glad you’re safe,” he murmurs, curled against the plush of his chest. Aziraphale strokes his hair and hums a soft noise of affection.

“I could never be safer than in your hands. You’ve always been so good to me.”

Crowley presses closer. “You deserve it,” he says. Habit alone has him speaking now, but it’s the truest thing he could have said. 

Aziraphale hushes him, but it's more fond than anything. “You do too, my heart. And you deserve to rest. Sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake.” 

Crowley nods and lets his eyes close at last. The steadied drum of his angel's heartbeat against his ear acts like a metronome and it's all too easy to let it guide him over into the realm of unconciousness. The world is reduced to dark, and warm, and safe, and as he slips under, he hears the beginnings of a familiar tune.

_“Go to sleep and dream of pain, doom and dread all swept away. Sleep so sweet, my darling boy, they’ve no rule over our joy….”_


End file.
